Lemon Thyme Pudding

Lemon is amazing. Pudding is delicious. Thyme is delightful.

And since I had a few leftover yolks and some lemons in the fridge and a few sprigs of thyme that were quickly headed toward "beyond the point of usefulness," I decided to make a lemon thyme pudding.

It's phenomenal.

*****

Ingredients:

• 4 sprigs fresh thyme
• 2 cups half-and-half
• 1/2 cup whole milk
• 3/4 cups demerara sugar
• 1/4 cup cornstarch
• 5 egg yolks, lightly beaten
• 2 Tablespoons very fine fresh lemon zest
• 1 generous pinch of salt
• 1/2 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice
• 2 Tablespoons unsalted butter

In a medium saucepan, heat thyme, half-and-half, and milk until it just reaches a simmer. Remove from heat and allow to cool.

In a medium saucier, whisk the sugar and cornstarch to combine. Pour the milk mixture through a sieve to strain out the thyme and whisk thoroughly into the sugar mixture.

Add the egg yolks, zest, and salt. Mix until fully incorporated.

Place the saucier over medium heat and cook, whisking constantly, until the mixture is thickened and holds to the whisk.

Remove from the heat and immediately stir in the lemon juice and butter.

Divide among dessert dishes (6-7 4oz ramekins or similar) and allow to come to room temperature. Cover loosely and chill for several hours before serving.

*****

Chef's Notes:

This recipe used slightly less than 2 1/2 lemons worth of zest and juice, using a very fine microplane to zest the lemons and wooden reamer to juice them. (I would have just used to two whole lemons and called it good, but I had a 1/2 lemon left over from our Sunday eggs Benedict and I wanted to get it used up).

I might up the amount of thyme with the next batch, as I'd like a bit more of that flavor. However, since the point of experimenting with this today was to use up all of the thyme in the fridge (which I did), I'm extremely pleased with the results.

With the remaining zest and juice, I made a loaf of gluten-free lemon poppy seed pound cake. Because I'm awesome like that.

Expectations

"Resolve to Adventure" the Eddie Bauer coupon on the dining room table reads.

What is a resolution other than our stated intention to meet some expectation?

Expectation are heavy burdens.

I once knew two sisters who were as different as night and day.

The older of the two was beautiful and artistic. She could paint, draw, and was incredibly musically gifted. She also really wanted to be an only child. And she made certain everyone, especially her younger sister, knew it.

The younger of the two was an awkward child. Neither beautiful nor artistic, she was your classically fumbling fat kid. And she knew it.

While the older sister made friends everywhere she went and captured entire audiences with her voice and her talents for any and all instruments, the younger often stayed back, away from the fray, and poured herself into her academic studies, as that was where she felt safe and comfortable.

The older sister was often praised for her beauty and her talents; she even earned a full scholarship to an elite institution to study music.

The younger sister was rewarded with high grades, told she could do anything, be anything she wanted, that education was the key to any life she chose, and was otherwise left to her own devices as she seemed to being so well.

The older sister eventually fell in with the "wrong crowd" and began using drugs and alcohol. Despite all the previous accolades, it was the voice of her first serious boyfriend that stuck with her. Told she had no talent and would never amount to anything, she quit high school a few weeks before graduation and proceeded to live down to every societal expectation of a drug addicted, high school drop out, single mother.

The younger sister did "everything right," striving to live up to every expectation placed upon her: graduating from high school, going on to college, and an elite institution for graduate school.

Expectations are heavy burdens.

Living down to the low expectations of others nearly killed the older sister as she fell deeper into drug use and moved from one emotionally and physically abusive relationship to the next. Eventually, she had had enough and began to listen not to the voices of those outside of herself, but to the voice within. She got clean and sober and created a life for herself and her children that, while less than what she might have had with more education and fewer children, was enough and more than anyone had told she had a right to in a very long time.

Expectation are heavy burdens.

While desperately seeeking to live up to the expectations of greatness placed upon her from her earliest years of formal education, the younger sister became perfectionistic and more than a little neurotic. Anxiety plagued her at every turn and she became, in many ways, independent to a fault. She was never one to ask for help, because if she wasn't strong enough to manage the burden on her, or smart enough to find a way to outwit any obstacle, what was she?

When a medical crisis forced her to take a leave of absence from her studies, the younger sister (for just a moment) considered the possibility that suicide would be a better alternative to disappointing everyone who knew her by admitting weakness, defeat, failure.

Expectations are heavy burdens.

I wonder if this is the reason the Christ child - Jesus - grew and became strong. Expected to cause "the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that [would] be opposed so that inner thoughts of many would be revealed" must have worn on Jesus. Yet "he grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him."

How does one carry the burden of expecations of an entire family, society, world? Do we strive to live up to or down to the expectations set for us?

This is the time of year when people are beginning to resolve to meet certain expectations in the coming year. How do we strive to live up to or down to the expectations we set for ourselves? And how much do family and societal pressures influence our New Year's Resolutions?

If I resolve to lose weight in the coming year, am I doing so because I want to be healthier? If that were the case, knowing the power of language as I do, I would likely resolve to eat more vegetables and lean protein, walk more often, and dust off the weights.

Usually, when I resolve to lose weight, it stems from the expectation set for me when I was an awkward, fumbling, fat kid that I would be pretty if, more valuable if, worthy of love if.... I would just lose the extra weight.

If I resolve to do things right, if I read everything I can find, if I seek out the best advice and follow it to the letter, am I doing so because I believe that anything worth doing is worth doing well? If that were the csae, I'd likely resolve to give my best effort to the things that matter most.

Usually, when I resort to unreasonably high expectations of myself, aiming to be the best, when nothing apart from something better than absolute perfection will suffice, it stems from a belief that following the law will ensure success, and that I will be successful, valuable, worthy of love if I can do all things right.

Expectations are heavy burdens - or they can be, when they come from the unrelenting voices outside of ourselves. Jesus certainly had unrelenting voices with which to contend. And yet, he was strong and wise; the favor of God was upon him. Different from the rest, Jesus seems to have mastered the art of living up to the expectations set by his Father, god. Jesus listened to and followed the inner voice of the divine that every child of God, every heir to God's kingdom carries within them. And by "every child of God" I mean everyone, no matter what.

Expectations can certainly be heavy burdens. And yet, here we are, at the close of another year, and many are making resolutions - stating their intention to meet some expectation in the coming year.

If you resolve in the coming year to do anything, I hope you'll take time to deeply contemplate the source of those the expectations, and choose wisely the voice you will heed. And remember, regardless of the expectations of others, "the greatest gift you ever give is your honest self."

When Loss is Gain

The thing about pastors is, we're human, too. We're actually no different from the people who sit in the pews of churches. We just have a different view on Sunday mornings.

Any pastor who tells you they've never doubted God is either lying or has a faith not worth trusting, in my humble opinion.

Any pastor who pretends they never have evil thoughts is full of shit.

I am not a nice person, but I like to believe I am incredibly kind.

Today, I may not even be all that kind; in reality, as a child in early elementary school, I was not all that kind. I was angry and violent a lot of the time.

Things changed when I was ten. There are reasons for the change, but I'll not go into those now. Suffice it to say the rage and violence remained, but I chose to direct them inward rather than outward. It took a very long time for the violence to end and the rage to dissipate and healing and joy to take their place again.

Two years before the change, however, there was one boy in my third grade class. His name was Andrew. This is the only time in this blog I will ever use a real name.

I do not remember Andrew's last name, but I was mean and hateful and cruel to him. For many years now I've wished I could look him up, find him, and apologize for the way I treated him. I carry the shame of my childhood sins with me.

But that is not what this post is about. This post is about this morning.

The thing about being a pastor is you end up on everybody's email list. Every church you've ever served, every church you've ever attended, every church you've ever preached at. They all get you on the roster, and the roster never gets cleaned out.

I received an email this morning from the church I grew up in. A young man passed away this weekend. He was thirty-four years old.

And I thought to myself that the world had become a kinder and gentler place with his passing.

This man was a year ahead of me in school. He was cruel to me. Not in the same ways I was cruel to Andrew, but in other ways. Constant torment and verbal abuse that was ignored by the adults in every setting.

He largely ignored me at church, but during the summers, he and his step-siblings would dunk me in the pool and hold me under water, they would taunt me about being an overweight kid from a dysfunctional and incredibly impoverished family. The lifeguards did nothing but tell me that if I didn't want to be picked on, I should go on a diet and not be so fat. The pool management said the same thing.

During the school year I only had interactions with him on the playground because he was a year ahead of me. That is until we were both transferred to a different school district some 20 miles away.

I tried to think kindly of him. He had a physical disability and came from a family not much different than my own, though perhaps slightly more well off. I didn't like the way he treated me, but I couldn't bring myself to be cruel to him. I couldn't bring myself to be cruel about him. Mostly, I just felt sorry for him, because I knew what had caused me to become an angry, bitter, violent five year old.

This all changed one day on the way home from school. There were three of us being bused from our district to the district up north. We rode in a white minivan with "SCHOOL BUS" magnets on the panels of the van.

This particular day, this boy had ridden to school, but he was nowhere to be seen in the bus on the way home from school. I asked about his very noticeable absence, and was told by the driver that he'd gotten sick at school and gone home early.

I genuinely hoped he was okay.

Then, the 25 minute ride home. I was grilled relentlessly about how I felt about this boy. I was goaded and picked at and pressured to say terrible, mean, hateful, hurtful things about him. Repeatedly I was asked, "But you really hate him, don't you? You think he's terrible, don't you?" These questions were asked by the third student and the bus driver, a woman in her late 40s.

I had never thought such things about him and I said so.

The onslaught of questions continued, but I heard a scuttling on the floor and looked under the seats. There he was, this boy of eleven, who had conspired to get me to say terrible things about him; there was the bus driver, a grown woman with adult children of her own, colluding to make a fool of me.

"It was just a joke," they said, trying to pass off their horrendous behavior as something we could all laugh about.

But it wasn't a joke when I was pressed into saying thing I hadn't thought - until that moment; when it was demanded that I admit to feelings that I did not have - until that moment.

I wasn't so angry with this boy or our fellow student for their stupid and childish prank as I was with the bus driver, a grown adult who sought to humiliate me, who intentionally created circumstances and participated in behaviors designed to trap me into saying something they could use against me later, an adult who was supposed to be a safe person, who had insisted this bus was a safe space, and who violated that safety with trickery and abuse.

I exploded when I got home and screamed at her about what a vile and disgusting human being she was.

As for this boy and the third student, I cried a bit. I couldn't understand their betrayal. Weren't we all in this together? Hadn't we all been kicked out of one school to be bused to another, one with more resources for "problem children" like us? Why was I the one singled out as the object of torment and insult? Weren't we all struggling with similar things?

The next day we had a new driver, the adult son of original driver who gave me an earful about how disrespectful my behavior toward his mother had been. I laughed in his face. Defending myself was not disrespectful. What she had done was disrespectful.

I read on the bus from then on and refused to speak to either this boy, the other student, or the new driver who continued to pick us up and drop us off for the remainder of the year.

But I never forgot that experience.

Some years later, while I was in seminary, the new pastor at my church mentioned that this boy, now a grown man, was in a facility, got precious few visitors, and since I was in the area often, it would probably be appreciated if I stopped by.

I never did. I didn't owe him anything.

This morning, I wanted to feel compassion. He's someone's son. He's someone's brother. He's someone's uncle. I thought briefly of sending my condolences to his family, telling them I'm sorry for their loss. But I'm not sorry.

And I do not feel compassion.

I feel relief, because my world feels a little safer and a little kinder without him in it.

Precision of Language and the Power of Voice

I am self-conscious about a number of my traits: physical attributes, personality quirks, and things that are uniquely me. The one thing I am most self-conscious about is my voice.

There are a lot of reasons I'm so self-conscious about my voice. My voice, for what it's worth, is not only uniquely me, and not only a significant expression of my personality quirks, but my voice is what it is precisely because of the unseen physical attributes of my vocal folds and diaphragm.

My voice tells people more than I want it to. Others hear my anxiety when I am trying to keep it together; others feel my excitement when I'm trying to express something important without overwhelming; others hear the irritation and impatience when I'm trying to be polite and respectful while explaining for the fortieth time in this conversation that I do know what I'm doing and I do not have to justify my knowledge to anyone; others hear and know and sometimes they even understand when my voice goes silent.

My voice has gotten me into trouble in nearly every place I've ever been. My voice has been a source of immense pain in every relationship I've ever had.

I was repeatedly silenced and made invisible as a child when I used my voice to speak out again abuse and injustice in my home.

I remember clearly one moment when I was about eight years old: though I did not want to, I was forced to give voice to sacred hymns that felt like lies and tasted bitter in my mouth or risk public humiliation and chastisement from my grandmother in the middle of a church service.

Once, in my teen years, I stopped speaking entirely for two weeks because I was in so much pain all words were lost to me. I received praise from those closest for the fact that I had begun to whither and fade.

In college I was told to stop asking so many clarifying questions when a professor would make two completely contradictory statements in the course of a lecture, leaving me to wonder how we ought to weight the information he was providing us.

I used to like some forms of music in some contexts and I used to love singing. Until I was told, every single time I sang for the pure pleasure of engaging the music, that I was flat and could sound so much better if I'd do a little work. This was told to me by a vocal coach who even offered to give me a few lessons. When I sought to accept this gracious offer, I was turned away. The criticism, however, continued, until I stopped singing entirely.

I do not sing now. And I rarely listen to music.

At work, my boss greeted me early one more as he came into the office. I greeted him back quite cheerfully and within two minutes received an email that if I continues to be disruptive in the work environment corrective action up to and including termination would be issued.

I've never greeted my boss again.

A few months later, I received a call from a very angry individual. Rather than get caught up in the anger and anxiety, I chose to modulate my voice, speak soothingly, and try to maintain control of the call so as to find a satisfactory resolution that met both the caller's and the company's needs. In the middle of the call I received a message from my boss telling me I wasn't being loud enough and he expected me to be more myself immediately or HR would be involved.

Those two incidents occurred in the same work place; the remarks were made by the same boss.

I hate my voice in almost every context in which I use or refrain from using it.

I am careful and intentional in how I use it in almost all situations.

It is not just the tone and volume that I seek and so miserably fail to modulate. I am also incredibly intentional in the words I choose when I give voice to my thoughts, feelings, ideas, and needs. Perhaps because the tone of my voice is often misinterpreted by so many I have become more careful and intentional in how I use my words.

I had been uninterested in reading Lois Lowry's The Giver because the synopsis read like a teen-ified, watered down version of George Lucas's THX 1138.

By happy accident, my niece and I were at a book store and upon seeing the book, she passionately urged me to buy and read it. She had enjoyed it immensely and thought I would love it as well.

So, I picked it up and when I was done with two books on my "Next to be Read" list, I started it.

I loved the book and perhaps if I were younger or less well read or completely unfamiliar with Utopian fiction, I would not have known what was going on from page one. As it was, I enjoyed it despite the fact that I could see the big reveal coming from the start.

Though I knew what was going on, I was actually quite drawn to the community Lowry had created. After all, release seemed a small price to pay for a community that operated so smoothly and in which precision of language was such an extraordinarily high value.

I began to feel drawn in and even found myself desiring such a community in my own life, where people say what they mean and mean what they say; where words are chosen carefully, intentionally, and precisely; where tone and feeling are less important than sentence structure and diction.

Until I read Asher's review at the ceremony for Twelves:

"When the committee began to consider Asher's Assignment," she went on, "there were some possibilities that were immediately discarded. Some that would clearly not have been right for Asher.

"For example," she said, smiling, "we did not consider for an instant designating Asher the Instructor of Threes."

The audience howled with laughter. Asher laughed too, looking sheepish but pleased with the special attention. The Instructor of Threes was in charge of the acquisition of language....

The punishment used for small children was a regulated system of smacks with the discipline wand: a thin, flexible weapon that stung painfully when it was wielded. The Childcare specialists were trained very carefully in the discipline methods: a quick smack across the hands for a bit of minor misbehavior; three sharper smacks on the bare legs for a second offense.¹ 

Honestly, even at this point, I was still enamored of the community Lowry had created. Though the discipline seemed harsh for one so young, the payoff for precision seemed well worth it.

I continued to read:

Poor Asher, who always talked too fast and mixed up words, even as a toddler. As a Three, eager for his juice and crackers at snacktime, he one day said "smack" instead of "snack" as he stood waiting in line for the morning treat.

Jonas remembered it clearly. He could still see little Asher, wiggling with impatience in the line. He remembered the cheerful voice calling out, "I want my smack!"

The other Threes, including Jonas, had laughed nervously. "Snack!" they corrected. "You meant snack, Asher!" But the mistake had been made. And precision of language was one of the most important tasks of small children. Asher had asked for a smack.

The discipline wand, in the hand of the Childcare worker, whistled as it came down across Asher's hands. Asher whimpered, cringed, and corrected himself instantly. "Snack," he whispered.

But the next morning he had done it again. And again the following week. He couldn't seem to stop, though for each lapse the discipline wand came again, escalating to a series of painful lashes that left marks on Asher's legs. Eventually, for a period of time, Asher stopped talking altogether, when was a Three.² 

I cried. I cried for Asher. I cried for myself. I cried for all those whose voices have been silenced through the years and whose voices continue to be silenced today. I cried for all of the words that are used in place of discipline wands and which leave scars much deeper on the soul.

I sought out my partner and a hug of comfort.

The next morning, I went to church, a place where my voice is not only accepted and encouraged but sought out for the purpose of reading scripture.

I feel at home in this community that sees my greatest weakness as a strength and a gift. I feel grateful to have found this place.

*****

1. Lois Lowry, The Giver (New York: Laurel-Leaf, 1993), 54.
2. ibid., 55.

The Therapy Session that Wasn't

I am confident that I have a self-confidence problem.

I am also confident that my former therapist would COMPLETELY agree with me on this point. Though she considered it her job to challenge distorted thought patterns in our sessions, I considered it her job to assure me that I was doing it "correctly" when I challenged my own distorted thought patterns. Our sessions often looked something like this:

Me: So.... This is the thing that happened, and this is how I felt, and I realized this is what I was thinking, and I realized that wasn't accurate, so I changed my thinking to this instead, and then I felt better.

Therapist: That's exactly how healthy people confront their thoughts. Therapy is for people who need someone else to challenge their thoughts. WHY ARE YOU PAYING ME WHEN YOU'RE DOING MY JOB FOR ME?

Me: Because it's worth it to me to have the assurance of a trained professional that I'm doing it right?

Therapist: And it's worth the cost to you?

Me: Absolutely.

Therapist: Okay.... If it's really what you want to do, but you do not need my services.

I haven't been to see my therapist in quite some time. Life was plugging along at a good pace and I had nothing going on in my life that made me think seeing my therapist might be necessary to manage distorted thoughts and resulting negative emotions.

Then, I met the most incredible man. And we talked and talked and talked. And then we decided to go on a date. And then he asked me to go on a second date. And then he asked me to be in a committed, mutually monogamous relationship and see where things go. And I said yes. Because when a kind, gracious, brilliant man who makes your brain light up like a Christmas tree clearly states his intentions and is as attracted to you as your are to him and whose relationship interests and life goals are compatible with your own, and when he wants to pursue a relationship with you and you want the same with him, and he's clear, direct, and honest about all of it and asks you to date him, the only answer one can give is, "YES!"

Add to this the fact that he's perfectly beautiful and an excellent cook, and exceptional communicator and willing to have awkward conversations, and he's so unbelievably respectful, puts up with all of my annoying quirks (I talk to my books when I read, I'm not overly fond of music outside of a car - and then low volume, and I ask really awkward questions on a regular basis) and he loves cheese as much as I do, and it was only a matter of time before the freak out started.

I was on the brink of calling my therapist this week. "I can't do this," I thought, a bit panicked. "I'm not made for it. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've never done it before. And it's not as though this kind of thing has ever been modeled for me in healthy ways. I'm going to fail and it will the most terrible thing ever!"

I pulled out my phone, because I could feel the panic rising.

Then, I stopped to consider just what a conversation with my therapist would look like.

Therapist; What brings you in today?

Me: I've started seeing this guy.

Therapist: How's that going?

Me: Amazing! He's fantastic and we're highly compatible, and I enjoy spending time with him. He's kind and smart and funny! What's more, he's super supportive of me and my life goals and encourages me regularly. He asks good questions and invites me to share myself with him. He doesn't shy away from my questions and he's willing to share himself with me. We're both aware that it's new and we're in the early stages which means everything is wonderful, but we're both committed to being open and honest with one another about our needs and expectations and addressing conflict in an open, honest, healthy and respectful way when conflict does eventually come up.

Therapist: That's fantastic. So, why are you here today?

Me: Because I'm dating this amazing guy.

Therapist: So, you came in to tell me that you're dating an amazing man? I'm happy to celebrate this news with you. What do you want to talk about for the next 45 minutes of your 50 minute session?

Me: Ummmm.... You know, that was it. I'm dating this amazing guy. And.... I don't know. You know, I don't know how to be in a relationship. I'm terrible at these things. I've tried before and it's never worked out and so clearly I can't do this.

Therapist: But you ended your relationship with the butcher because he was disrespectful and violated your boundaries despite you telling him in a clear, direct, honest, open and respectful fashion what your boundaries are.

Me: Yep.

Therapist: And you ended your relationship with the mustache because he wasn't interested in being in a relationship with you and he was simply avoiding talking about it, so you called him out on his lack of interest and ended things.

Me: Yep.

Therapist: And you have other relationships in your life that are deep and committed and emotionally intimate - with your best friend for instance, and your friends from grad school, and some of your co-workers.

Me: Yep.

Therapist: So, you clearly know how to engage in intimate relationships. You clearly know how to be clear, direct, honest, open and respectful in communicating your needs to your partner. You clearly know how to respectfully end a relationship that isn't healthy.

Me: Yep.

Therapist: And from everything you've said, you're still in the early stages of a relationship, you're cognizant of the realities of the "honeymoon" phase of a relationship, you're committed to engaging in this relationship in a healthy way and your partner is on board. He's demonstrated kindness, respect and clear, direct, honest and open communication with you to date?

Me: Yep.

Therapist: So, why are you here to see me today?

Me: So you can tell me that I'm doing this right?

I closed my phone and put it back in my pocket. I've decided it's time to trust myself and my skills and my abilities. It's time to affirm my reality for myself and stop relying on a professional to tell me I'm healthy. It's time to stop listening to the voice of self-doubt in my head and trust both in myself and in my partner, that even if I haven't had great role models for healthy romantic relationships, we can work together to figure out how we work together.

And I'm going to trust that I can do this thing, because I've done millions of things before that no one ever modeled for me, things I had to figure out on my own, and it wasn't always easy, and it wasn't always pretty, and I didn't always manage such things with all of the grace I wish I had, but I did them and I learned and I grew and I love the life I have and nothing can change that. And this time, I'm not doing it alone (not that I ever did any of the other things alone, despite what it felt like at the time). I'm doing it with a kind, brilliant, respectful, incredibly sexy man at my side.

I could not be happier to trust in myself and to trust in someone else.

Key Lime Bars

It was a citrus themed weekend.

Key Lime Bars:


For the Crust:

1 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups gf flour blend (I like Domata brand)

For the filling:

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 Tbls cornstarch
Juice and zest of 1 lb key limes
4 eggs

Preheat oven to 350*F.

Mix crust ingredients until it resembles course crumbs. Press into 9x13 cake pan. Bake for 20-25 minutes.

While the crust is baking, combine the sugar and cornstarch. Add juice, zest, and eggs. Mix completely.

When the crust is finished baking. Immediately pour key lime filling mixture over the crust and bake for an additional 20  minutes.

Remove from oven. Cool completely.

Passionfruit Bars

In line with the most recent recipes I've been working on, this weekend I stopped by the grocery store to pick up eggs in order to make lemon bars and key lime bars and saw that passionfruit was on sale! So, I bought several with the intentions of making passionfruit bars as well.

I love the tartness of passionfruit, but it's quite a delicately flavored fruit otherwise. As such, these are a very mild bar, which I liked less than the key lime, but which one of my hosts favored a great deal. I also altered the crust and cut back on the total sugar in the recipe. It could still be tweaked, but all in all, it was pretty good.

*****

Crust:
3/4 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups gf flour

Filling:
Pulp (seeds removed) of 10 passionfruit
1 cup sugar
3 Tbls cornstarch
4 eggs

Preheat oven to 350*F.

Combine butter, sugar and flour until it resembled course crumbs. Press into a 9x13 cake pan. Bake for 25 minutes.

Meanwhile, combine sugar and cornstarch. Add pulp and eggs. Mix completely.

Pour filling over hot crust and bake an additional 20-25 minutes.

Cool. Cut and store in the refrigerator in an airtight container.

Savory Thyme Lemon Bars with Raspberry

Having made lemon bars last week which led to some experimentation including Margarita Bars earlier this week. I also felt inspired between making and delivering the lemon bars to make the lemon bars with some herbaceous goodness in the crust.

As such, I present to you the recipe for Savory Thyme Lemon Bars with Raspberry.

For the Crust;

1 cup butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 cups gf flour blend (I like Domata brand)
Leaves of 15-20 thyme stems

For the filling:

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 Tbls cornstarch
Juice and zest of 2 large or 4 small lemons
4 eggs

10 oz  raspberry cake and pastry filling.


Preheat oven to 350*.

Mix crust ingredients until it resembles course crumbs. Press into 9x13 cake pan. Bake for 20 minutes.

While the crust is baking, combine the sugar and cornstarch. Add juice, zest, and eggs. Mix completely.

When the crust is finished baking, remove from oven and dot with raspberry cake and pastry filling. Immediately pour lemon filling mixture over the crust and bake for an additional 20  minutes.

Remove from oven. Cool completely.

*****

I continue to think I may need to bake the crust longer. Maybe 25-30 minutes. I was using a different oven, so it may be a matter of equipment.

I also did not have lemon extract on hand, and this is quite regretful. The extra tsp or two really makes it great.

In the future, I would double the thyme and halve the raspberry filling. More likely, I would double the thyme and fresh raspberries instead of filling. But, as first attempts go, this wasn't terrible.

Margarita Bars

Someone I know, who also happens to be quite special to me, loves lemon bars. And because I love to feed people I love, I made a big batch of lemon bars for this individual. While I was in the process of transporting the lemon bars, it occurred to me that there are numerous ways I can alter a basic lemon bar recipe to make it more spectacular.

As a girl who loves lime and tequila and all things margaritas, I decided to adjust the recipe to make margarita bars. And since several people have told me how much they enjoy these bars, I'm including the recipe here for you, my faithful readers.

Margarita Bars

Crust:

1 cup unsalted butter
1/2 cup sugar
2 1/4 cups gf flour (I like Domata brand)
1 tsp kosher salt

Margarita Topping

1 1/2 cups sugar
2 Tbls cornstarch
Juice and zest of 6 limes
4 eggs
1 tsp lemon extract
1 tsp orange extract
3 oz good silver tequila
6 pkgs True Lime (optional)

Preheat oven to 350* F.

Line 9 x 13 cake pan with parchment paper.

Mix crust ingredients until it resembles course crumbs. Press into prepared pan and bake for 20 minutes.

While crust is baking, whisk sugar and cornstarch until thoroughly combined. Add the remaineder of th fill ingredients. Mix completely.

Pour over hot crust and return to oven. Bake an additional 20 minutes.

Cool completely. Store in airtight container in refrigerator.

Cut into squares to serve. If you like a saltier margarita, top each individual bar with a sprinkle of kosher salt.



These bars are super tart, the tequila comes through nicely, and the salt on top adds a delightful contrast to the occasional bitterness brought by the lime zest.

Community

I went to a community event with a new group of friends Thursday night. Some of the individuals have been in the community longer than I and some were newer than I.

Brand new that night was an individual I'll call Bill. Bill seemed polite enough, so when he friend requested me the following afternoon from our community page on a social networking site, I thought nothing of it.

When he messaged me a "hello," I responded. A "How are you?" opening and an honest response of "Sunburned" led to flirtatious banter. This was a bit sudden for me, but being an occasionally overly friendly individual and sometimes flirtatious individual, I didn't have an issue with light banter.

Within a few exchanges however, Bill's remarks stopped being light banter and became distinctly, yet subtly, sexual. I told Bill not to get dirty with me, that banter was fine, but he'd crossed a line. To this, Bill responded, "I love banter. But at some point you have to shit or get off the crapper."

Time to shit or get off the crapper fewer than 10 hours after I met you and 35 minutes into our first conversation? Time to shit or get off the crapper when my profile online clearly indicates that I'm not interested in ANY kind of relationship other than friendship? "Friends with Benefits" was an option and I did not choose it.

Immediately, I sought to steer the conversation away from anything even remotely sexual. Forget light banter, forget subtle flirtations, forget friendly conversation. I signed off without so much as a good-bye and went about my day.

Thinking on it later, I was actually quite upset. I talked to my person, Eddie, with whom I am beginning, really have tentatively begun, a relationship. "Am I being overly sensitive?" I asked. "I was really uncomfortable."

"If you're not comfortable, I'm not comfortable. And all things considered, from the way this is going, I'm actually gravely concerned. This is how we're going to address it online - this is how we will label our relationship online. If you're okay with that. It might seem a little extreme, but it should send the message that you have interests elsewhere and end the unwanted attention. My only regret is that I can't be there physically to protect you."

I was 100% okay with this resolution. And so, the next morning, I headed to a coffee shop, accessed the internet, and updated my relationship status as we'd discussed. I felt better. Territory MARKED; all others beware.

This did not stop the unwanted attention. Another message that could have been read in a manner that was completely non-sexual or very sexual. I can assure you that it was intended as the latter. I chose to respond as though it were the former. I chose to make clear that Bill's overly sexual attentions were not welcome. I thought I was clear.

And then last night's party.

My friend John and I have been hanging out a bit lately and we were both on the early side in arriving. John asked about my profile update and things with Eddie. I gave him a brief rundown of what had happened with Bill and how Eddie had recommended we address it online. "If you'd asked me, I'd have offered to stand in to protect you," John said.

"That's actually why I'm telling you the whole thing now," I said. "All of this happened after we had ice cream yesterday. Since Eddie is 800 miles away, and Bill has indicated he will be here tonight, can you act as my buffer? Will you be Eddie's proxy?" John agreed immediately.

We began to socialize with others, chatting with each other and wandering individually to other people and conversations. I was feeling comfortable and safe and genuinely enjoying myself, though I was as nervous as I ever am in social settings in which I don't know many of the assembled.

When John rejoined me, I touched his arm a few times, a casual affection because I'm comfortable with him and because I wanted him to know what my "comfortable" touch felt like.

"I don't know what that touch means," John said to me.

"That was just casual, friendly affection," I explained withdrawing my hand. "I didn't mean...if it bothers you...I'll stop."

"No," John said. "It's fine. You can touch me. I just wanted to know what you were communicating."

I explained that most, if not all, of my touch was likely to be casual affection. "If something happens and I feel unsafe, I'll touch you in a very different way."

"How will I know?" John asked.

"You'll know," I told him. "If you have any doubt, I'll tell you that's why I'm touching you."

Shortly thereafter, John and I were joined by Victoria. We were chatting and headed outside for a few minutes so that Victoria could smoke. Not long into our time outdoors and Bill showed up with two other people. I recognized him immediately though he was still some forty feet away.

Everything in me began screaming. Internal red flags waving frantically, alarm bells pealing loudly, icky tummy feelings. All of it. Absolutely screaming. Frantically, I clutched John's arm. "That's him?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I whispered back.

John immediately shifted himself in front of me, using his body to block access to me. He stepped up onto the curb, placing himself slightly above me and making himself seem larger. He allowed me to pull his arm around my waist and hold his hand behind my back.

As Bill and the other two people with him approached our group, he paused. Everyone introduced themselves to Victoria who introduced herself to these three. Bill pointedly ignored me.

Maybe he had finally, blissfully, gotten the message. Maybe he saw John's protective stance before me, arm around me, and understood that I was not to be approached, that his attentions were unwelcome and everyone in that particular circle knew that this had been communicated clearly.

Once Bill and his group had moved inside, Victoria turned to me. "What is going on? What was that?" she asked, intense concern lacing her voice, as John said, "Yes, I knew what that touch meant."

I explained the situation to Victoria and told her I was pretty sure it was being handled. "If he bothers you again, these are the people you can ask and they will take care of it," Victoria said, listing off eight or ten people.

Feeling more confident and comfortable, I began to relax again as John and Victoria finished their conversation and we headed inside.

Once inside, our group split up. We each sought new conversations. Before long, John and Victoria were deep into focused conversations and I was interacting with a few new people, while keeping an eye, generally, on where my "safe" people were.

And this is the moment, when John was physically removed from my presence, that Bill chose to show up. Immediately he attempted to strike up a conversation.

Fortunately, the woman to my left remarked on something that I had an interest in and I was able to use that to turn from Bill's attentions and begin asking her more in-depth questions. Thankfully, Bill moved on. But not all that far. He took a seat directly between me and the door and I was clearly in his line of sight. Soon, the woman with whom I'd been conversing moved on.

I thought briefly of finding John, but I needed to get out. NOW.

One of the safe people Victoria had named was walking by. I quickly got his attention. "When he's done with his conversation, will you please let John know that I left a little early?" I asked.

"Yeah, absolutely," the man said.

"And would you be able to walk me to my car?" I asked, beginning to tear up.

"Of course," he said. He escorted me out of the building and through the parking lot to my car. "Is everything okay?" he asked.

"It's fine," I said. "I just had a really uncomfortable interaction with someone online yesterday and they're here tonight, and they approached me and I just really need to leave."

"If you're sure you're fine," he said, "but connect with me through the community page. If you decide to give us a name, we can address it directly and make sure you aren't bothered again." I thanked him for his kindness and headed home.

On my drive home John called to check in and I explained how Bill had approached me as soon as John himself was completely absorbed in conversation elsewhere, "That to me was just absolute confirmation that my internal alarms were right," I said. "That he waited until I was isolated from the person he knew was looking out for me."

"That kind of pisses me off," John said, "and you're right. That he waited until you were alone to approach you is absolutely confirmation that he is unsafe."

Next, I explained what had happened to Eddie, that I was safe, on my way home, that the community had my back tonight, and that I would be sending a very strongly worded message to Bill when I got home that he was not to approach me in person or online again as he had not respected the boundaries I'd established.

By the time I had composed and sent this message to Bill, a general message had been posted to our community board about the expectations for community engagement. Above all, safety for the members of the community is priority. Perhaps it was coincidence. Perhaps the individual posting heard what had happened and wanted to clarify for EVERYONE what is acceptable and what is not.

Regardless, I'm grateful that I have a community that is concerned with the safety of its members, new or seasoned. I'm grateful that I do not have to justify my internal alarms to this community. I am grateful that I am part of community which clearly states that it is acceptable to be friendly and flirty without the expectation of any sexual or physical contact. I'm grateful that people will not only tell you they'll take care of individuals who continuously violate an established boundary, but that these same people WILL take care of (i.e. remove from the community) individuals who continuously violate established boundaries.

Bill has as much right to be in this public space as I do. However, Bill does not have the right to use intimidation and subtle threats (through isolation and boundary violations) to frighten people. And that's exactly what Bill was doing.

I met Victoria for the first time not 15 minutes before Bill arrived. If she picked up from my body language that something was SERIOUSLY wrong, there's no way in hell Bill didn't know. If John was using his body to physically block access to me, there's no way in hell Bill did not intentionally seek me out when I was not in immediate contact with John.

I am grateful for Victoria, John, and Eddie. I am grateful for the bouncer who walked me to my car. I am grateful for the way they treated me in the midst of this.

I did not have to explain or justify my feelings. I did not have to justify or defend the fact that I had engaged in banter. There were no questions about why I was wearing a red dress and 5 1/2" heels if I didn't want sexual attention from men. There was no hint that the choices I had made had invited the unwanted attention. There was no suggestion that I was being overly sensitive or unfair or that I should give everyone a fair shot. There was no indication of doubt concerning the veracity of my experience. There was not a single word uttered that would in any way justify or excuse Bill's behavior or seek to blame me for any of it.

Whether I stay in this place or move back to where I come from, I am grateful for this community. Whether I stay or go, I am grateful for these new friends. Whether I stay or go, I am grateful for this safe space. Whether I stay or go, I am grateful that I have people in my life who, regardless of personality differences, will "stand behind [me], next to [me], or in front of [me] when it comes to matters of safety." Whether I stay or go, I am grateful for the time I have in this community.

I am grateful.

The Kindness Epiphany

It was a painful kind of day, Thursday.

The day had not started painfully. The day had started beautifully, full of hope that smelled of iris and honeysuckle; ripe with love that was full and soft and sweet as mango picked from the tree at its peak. I opened my heart to another and with hands outstretched, offered myself to them. I felt no fear. Only certainty that the step I was taking was right and good and lovely.

I did not receive a response. But then, I did not need one. I had offered myself freely and completely as a gift. No strings attached. Should that gift be rejected, I knew there would be a sting, but I was also fully confident that such pain would be survivable and I would be better for having risked the gift of love in the first place.

Then, I went to the place of interruption. At first it was okay. I knew I would be okay and I was still brimming with the joy of having stepped beyond my self-imposed fortress and invited another to see me.

But then, in a small, cold room, full of other people, I was confronted with the memory of that interruption of death into life which had so disabled me for so long. I was confronted with the interruption that had kept me from talking about the interruption. And it was in my chair.

A place of comfort and continuity and safety in a situation so full of people that the anxiety of not being able to attend to the presence of all at once could only be mitigated by that seat in the room so that I could focus on each speaker directly and still hold  the whole in my periphery -- as much for my own comfort in not being startled by sudden movement or noise from behind and to have a clear view of egress, as by my desire to attend to those who might want to speak but may not have been seen by anyone else.

My chest began to constrict painfully with anxiety. Because I was not able to mitigate it by taking a place of security that would allow me to pay attention to what was being said, I stood apart. It seemed there was no safe room for me in the circle. I thought briefly of asking to have my need for this space honored, but quickly rejected it, as a previous attempt at engagement about the chair had ended in derision and previous engagement with the particular individual now occupying the only safe place in the room had ended in a verbal attack so violent, I defended myself vociferously for fear I would be swallowed whole by the feelings of shame that erupted when confronted by the dichotomy of being asked for vulnerability and being verbally run over and diverted in every instance in which I chose to say those alien words that strike fear so deeply in my heart my throat closes off and I can scarcely breathe: I need....

Twenty minutes and report was delivered and we were free for 15 minutes until the start of the next activity which would be safer. I retreated to a quiet space and reminded myself that what felt like an attack was not; what felt like an intentional denial of my safety was not. I tried. But my muscles had started to ache and my joints were getting stiff. Pressure was building in my eyes.

And then the questions. Ten people all asking. Yet, whenever I would answer, they didn't seem to hear; when I would try to clarify, someone else would begin speaking and I would be shushed for interrupting their interruption. Falling silent, I would wait until they would finish so that I could go back and say, "I need you to understand, that's just the presenting symptom. I want you to see and know the source that underneath it all it's really about this and I've been trying and trying and trying for weeks to tell you this most important part of who I am and I'm trying and trying and trying to trust you with the single most sacred thing in the world to me because it's here, in this time and place that that sacred experience and the loss of it is making it impossible for me to connect because it's bigger than I expected and I didn't know if you were safe, but I was told you were and I'm trying! I'm trying so hard to trust you with this so that you might see me and then judge me or not, but if you do you'll at least be judging me for who I am, not for who you think I am, and if you don't judge me, if you just accept me, then I'll know that I'm safe and I belong, if you would just let me explain."

But by the time the other person had finished talking, another jumped in, and then before I could clarify, I was asked another question and I tried to hold it all together, but now my anxiety is so high that my fingers are aching so badly I can barely think of anything but the sensation of pins stabbing through my knuckles and the fire in my fingertips and I can't look to the person on my right as they ask their next question and still see the person on my left because I had chosen to edge a few inches out of that safe space because I really do trust you even if you don't see it, and now I'm trapped and I can't retreat and the questions just keep coming and there are so many voices in the room I can't begin to understand how I can possibly answer whatever the question was while other people try to explain the dynamics and I am told, "But what's important isn't what anyone else said or did. What's important is that you understand why you responded that way."

"I know exactly why I responded that way," I say. I've been trying to tell you for four weeks and no one will listen or let me find the words, in the moment, to clarify and then the moment is gone and there isn't a chance to go back and I'm being attacked with these questions that won't let me go back and now I feel like an electric current is running through my whole body just under my skin and it hurts and  the back of my throat is closed so tightly I can't swallow and I can barely breathe and I want to throw up because my stomach is roiling and I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and my brain feels like all of the electricity running beneath my skin is ending there and it's building until I can feel everything in me begin to short-circuit.

"Can you tell me why then?" a gentle voice asks me. And I know somewhere in the recesses of my mind that this voice is one that will hear, but I feel like a wounded animal, caged and beaten and desperate to be left alone to heal and recover.

"None of your business," I say with cold finality. And then silence. And I know that it's bad. I know that I've thrown away my chance to be understood. That gentle voice looks taken aback, surprised that I would pull so violently away at this moment. I've been trying for weeks to tell you this most important part of what this experience is for me and no one has listened. Everyone has spent an hour in an all out assault against me, nine to one, and now, now that I am at the end of everything, you ask me to open my heart that I've desperately been trying to show you for a month. You ask for the vulnerability everyone has actively rejected at every turn.

Beaten, broken, bleeding, I can't process the gentleness in that voice. All I know is that I am alone in this place where no one has been willing to know me; I am beaten and terrified and will do anything to protect myself; and opening my heart one more time hoping again that this time you might understand is not possible.

In that moment, I do not hear the gentleness as an earnest desire to understand. I hear it as a call to submission before you deal the fatal blow. "Tell me so that I can finally destroy you entirely."

"None of your business."

Surprise.

I am wrong.

I have to make this right.

But there isn't time.

And there are more voices and we're being ushered out, and I hope, I fervently hope, maybe next time I can make it right. I can go back and explain. I can tell you that I know you asked for all the right reasons and I missed it and I want to tell you so that you'll know because I want you to know, because even if you don't accept it, it's important for me to say it to you so that I will know that I have taken the risk and offered myself and regardless of the outcome, I know there is joy in the offering. I want you to know the joy of knowing who I am and I want the joy of knowing you. I want to start over. I want to begin again and I want to tell you, "THIS (the relationship, the life that was interrupted by death that left me incapacitated) is what I hold most dear in life and you deserve to know this, because we are all going to be living with this sacred experience in the next seven weeks and it's going to be here and you are going to feel it and you have a right to know what it is."

Shortly thereafter I learn there will be no next time.

Maybe with the intense trauma response I've been living with for the past four weeks it's better. I know that it's physically and emotionally safer than continuing without change. But I wanted the chance to make that change.

I want the chance, now that you've finally asked me, to tell you that this is a very painful but very welcome interruption. I want the chance to tell you that I don't know how to be in this space of welcome pain because I've spent my whole life trying to mitigate pain. I want to ask you, "Will you walk alongside me in that as we journey in this place together?" I want to tell you, "Wherever you're at in your journey, I'm willing to walk with you, too!"

But there will not be a next time.

After it all, I went to a movie. I entered the theater through a side door and saw kiosks in the lobby. They only take cards. I wanted to pay with cash.

I approach the customer service counter and ask the woman behind the counter where I can get a ticket. "We've got the kiosks right there," she said with a smile and a gesture.

"Oh, no. I mean, I wanted to pay cash. If possible. I have a card. I can certainly use it, I was just hoping...." I feel flustered and unsure.

"Cash payments can be done outside," she tells me.

"Oh. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to bother you," I tell her, realizing that once again I'd made a mistake. "I didn't realize... I'm not from here and the set up is different...." I want her to understand that I tried. I really did try. I just didn't understand.

"I'm not really supposed to," she says, picking up on my distress, "but I'll let you pay here just this once. Since you didn't know. In the future, though, just remember cash outside, cards in."

"No, really, it's okay," I tell her, beginning to cry at having inconvenienced her and overwhelmed by her willingness to break the rules for me. "I'll just go outside to pay." I turn to leave the desk.

"No. I'd really like to. It's okay. I just know that not everyone would, and I wouldn't want you to be turned away again."

Tears are streaming down my cheeks now, and the delicate skin just beneath my eyes begins to sting as the saltwater hits the microscopic tears that the abundance of tissues used earlier in the day have left. "I'm so sorry," I sob to her. "I don't mean to cry. You haven't done anything wrong. I'm just having a really hard day."

"Oh, honey," she says, "I don't know what's going on, but I do know for sure it'll get better. Eventually, it always does. And I'd like to help you have a better day. I really want you to go to the movie as my guest. No charge."

"I can't...I don't...It's too much...Thank you," I say as she hands me the ticket.

"I'll say a prayer for you," she tells me, a sure sign of where I am in the country. "Theater 16, just to the right. It'll be just a few minutes until they start seating."

As I walk away, humbled by this unexpected generosity, feeling worse that I've so inconvenienced someone with my tears that they felt the need to care for me in the only way they could, I heard Jesus, clear as a bell, ask me, "Do you really believe that you are so undeserving of kindness?"

I begin to sob in earnest now and make a hasty beeline for the family restroom where I can keen and wail with the pain of this softly spoken truth. Perhaps if I were to believe that I do deserve kindness, from myself and from others, then I could accept invitations to know and be known as the gifts they are and not reject them as fiery arrows of attack from an unknown entity.

Now I know. I know that it is my own deep sense of unworthiness that has kept me from being able to declare, "Here I am, world! I trust you to treat me kindly, because we all deserve a bit of kindness, including me! But if there's a misunderstanding, it's okay, because I trust it isn't intentional and just maybe if I'm willing and you're willing we can figure it out together. But if we can't, it'll still be okay, because I know who I am, and that is enough."

I want to go back. But it simply isn't possible. All of the unspoken words that have filled me up for the past four weeks are spilling out of my fingertips with no one left to witness.

This is NOT Transference

When I met him, this was what I was carrying with me:

1. Father abandoned family

2. The church I had been attending shut down one Sunday when the pastor decided he didn't want to be a pastor anymore; being a non-denominational church, we had no pool of candidates or options for pulpit supply and the church essentially stopped existing in that moment

3. P pursued me, told me he loved me, told me he wanted to marry me; then, he slept with S

4. I was blamed for #3; I was told, "That's just the way he is. If you got hurt, it's your fault because you didn't guard your heart."

5. Kicked out of my small group and blacklisted in church because I told the pastor's wife about what P had done and expressed my concerns that he might not be the best choice of small group leaders given the church's mission and stated values

6. Gave away my virginity and started experiencing PTSD from a rape at the age of 15, which I had repressed

7. Lost a large portion of my identity in being a) perfect and b) not a rape victim

1-7 happened within the first 2 weeks of school. 6 happened the night before my first one-on-one meeting with my CPE supervisor and he offered to walk the journey with me. He was the only person in my life who was fully present with me during that time. He was the only person in my life who loved me unconditionally. 

8. Dropped out of school because of 1-7 and lost a larger portion of my identity as a student

9. I was brutally raped by a stranger on Halloween; the attack lasted hours

10. He died on November 7, 2007

9 weeks, 6 hours, 13 minutes after we first met.

People who do not know me, did not know him, and who had no experience of our relationship have often accused me of “transference” and “counter-transference” when they hear the depth of my grief and the intensity of the bond between us. People encourage me to get more therapy and understand how he was a stand-in for my father.

Their interpretation is patently false.

If there was any kind of transference and counter-transference whatsoever, the person I identified and responded to him as was Jesus. He was the incarnate Christ to me for that brief time that we had together.

Jesus was the ever-present source of comfort, affirmation and protection in my life throughout my childhood. Jesus is the one who held me when I cried. Jesus was the one who assured me that I was okay. Jesus is the one I turned to for protection when my father beat my siblings and I prayed desperately that my father would not hit me. Jesus is the one I sought when my father came after me with the intent to kill me and I had to hide in a laundry hamper, with dirty close pulled tightly on top of me, a hot, sticky, wretched mess of breath amidst the dirty pants, socks, and t-shirts of childhood.

Jesus is was the one who heard me, affirmed me, protected, stood by me, walked with me, and never asked anything of me. Jesus is the one who loved me unconditionally and asked nothing from me and wanted nothing for me. Jesus was the only one who simply loved me where I was, as I was, in the way I needed.

That is who He was to me.

He was the incarnate Christ. As one who professes an incarnational faith, it is no great leap to me that I saw Jesus in Him, that I saw Him as Jesus to me for that brief period of time.

If there anything that my relationship with Him taught me, it was that incarnation is an active, present, on-going reality. We, all of God’s children, are the body of Christ. This has allowed me to see Jesus in others, in each person I meet. It is not always easy. It does not always come naturally. No one carries the image as fully, completely, and utterly as He did.

But, having found Jesus in Him, I am able, in spite of experiences that would inform me otherwise, to intentionally seek out the image of God in others and to affirm that they are children of God, just as He was, just as I am, and I can see Jesus in them, too.

How can that possibly be unhealthy?

Today, I Quit My Job

I lied to you and I am sorry.

It was always my intent to leave without telling anyone other than my boss, and so when it happened, and you knew it might, and you asked, I couldn't bear to tell you that, yes, I was leaving. I did not want to face it.

So, today, I quit my job. I gave my notice two and a half weeks ago and today, I walked out without a word to anyone else that it was my last day.

I lied to you, repeatedly. I am sorry that I lied. I did not want to face it, the end, the fact that I would not see you again. Magical thinking - the belief that if a person hopes for something enough or performs the right actions that an unavoidable event can be averted.

If you've ever read "The Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion, you might understand. It's like her husband's shoes. Though he had died quite suddenly, Joan wrote that she found herself unable to get rid of them when she was cleaning out his closet. Though she was able to remove his clothes and other personal effects after he had passed away, she could not get rid of his shoes because he would need them when he came home.

It was a bit like that for me. If I didn't tell anyone I was leaving, it wouldn't be real and I wouldn't have to feel the pain of loss: not seeing you every day at work, not talking about our lives at those times when we could catch a moment to chat, not seeing your smile, not reaching beyond my comfort zone to touch you in a gesture of friendship that is bigger than you might realize....

If I didn't tell you I was leaving, I wouldn't have to miss you or think that you might miss me.

Magical thinking. If I can convince you it isn't real, then it can't hurt me.

I lied. I'm sorry. I hope you'll forgive me.

Why Your Relationships Didn't Work

Someone I know recently posted a meme on facebook that is completely right and completely wrong, all at the same time. I agree with the statement in the post; I completely disagree with the apparent intended message of the meme.

This meme is spot on and oh, so wrong.

Here I am, walking into your life to tell you what you need to know about that moment, that future moment, when someone will walk into your life and make you see why it never worked out with anyone else.

If you are ever going to know why it never worked out, I know exactly who the person is who is going to make you see why.

It's you.

One day, at some point in the future, the you whom you are becoming is going to make you see why it never worked out with anyone else.

I'm 100% confident in this assessment.

And I'll even tell you why: you are the lowest common denominator in all of your failed relationships. You are the reason it never worked out.

Now, I'm not blaming you. I'm not shaming you. I'm not placing you at fault.

I'm sharing a simple and incredibly powerful truth. You are the reason your relationships have not worked out. And all of those people with whom it didn't work? Well, they are the reason their relationship with you didn't work out. And the person who will one day walk into their life and make them see this is their own future self.

I know this because I've spent some time thinking about my relationships and why they haven't worked out.

There was my first boyfriend, from junior high. He was a lovely boy. It didn't work out because I was twelve. I had no idea who I was and frankly had no business being in a relationship in the first place. The relationship didn't work because I was too young to be in a relationship.

I had a couple of relationships in college. I was immature, unhealthy, and totally incapable of engaging in emotional intimacy. These relationships didn't work out because I was not ready to be in a relationship. I had no idea how to relate to other people. I didn't know how to even relate to myself and be authentic.

In graduate school I had a relationship that didn't work out because I had different life goals from my partner and because my expectations for a relationship differed from those of my partner.

My most recent relationship didn't work out because I know my worth and I am not willing to remain in a relationship with someone who does not treat me with respect and who is not interested in meeting my relational needs. This relationship didn't work out because I was not willing to accept being in a relationship with someone who rejected me when I shared with him my deepest needs.

I'm incredibly fortunate that not two days later my best friend gave me a call and asked, "Can I meet that need? Would it be okay if I affirmed you in this?" She's a total rock star.

When that last relationship ended, I cried myself to sleep that night. Not because I was upset that it was over. I cried because I had shared intimately with my partner and been rejected and rejection sucks. I knew, in spite of my tears, that I would be perfectly fine, quite happy in fact.

This is why: I would rather be content in my singleness than lonely in my relationship.

In each of these relationships, I am the reason they didn't work out. As a young woman, I was too young, too immature, too distrustful, too unhealthy.

As a healthy, trusting, mature woman who is only interested in healthy relationships and (if it should happen) an emotionally intimate romantic relationship; I am not willing to be in a relationship that does not meet my needs, with a person who does not share my goals or who treats me with disrespect.

I really like the choices I've made most recently: dignity, respect, health and self-love.

Those are my choices, no one else made those choices for me.

The same holds true for you and the choices you've made.

A Coconut Kind of Day

Having made coconut cupcakes today, I had things leftover and no real plans on how to use them. The great thing about coconut cupcakes is that I used a white cake recipe and simply substituted coconut milk for moo milk in the recipe. White cakes also uses egg whites. Lots of egg whites. In fact, it's the egg whites sans yolks that keeps a cake white rather than yellow.

So, in addition to half of a can of coconut milk, I also had five egg yolks just sitting in a bowl.

I decided this was the ideal day to make a coconut cream pie.

While the cupcakes cooled, I blind baked a pie crust. I used to make the best pie crust in the world, but being gluten-free means I've moved away from baking with wheat. This is sad, because gluten-free alternatives lead to a much more delicate pie crust, and I rarely have any interest in fighting with it. Thank the good Lord for frozen gf pie crusts!

For the filling:

1 2/3 cup whole milk
1 cup coconut milk
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup cornstarch
1/4 tsp kosher salt
5 egg yolks
1 Tbls butter
1 tsp coconut extract
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
1 cup unsweetened shredded coconut

Mix the milks together.

Mix the sugar, cornstarch and salt in a medium saucepan. Add the milks and whisk to thoroughly combine. Cook over medium heat, whisking constantly, until thick and bubbling.

In a medium mixing bowl, whisk the egg yolks until lightened in color. Slowly whisk in the hot milk mixture.

Return the milk and egg mixture to the saucepan. Return to medium heat and continue whisking until mixture begins to boil again, whisking constantly.

Remove from heat and stir in butter and extracts. Fold in the coconut.

Cover the surface of the coconut custard with plastic wrap and chill.

When throroughly chilled, transfer custard to pie crust. Feel free to top with whipped topping and toasted coconut. Refrigerate overnight. It's delicious.


Once the cupcakes were cooled, I poked holes in them and then infused them with a coconut simple syrup. I frosted them with a coconut buttercream and rolled them in toasted coconut.